Superman vs Hitler
by Ganondorfdude11
Summary: In the Golden Age of comics, Superman would often been seen fighting Hitler on the covers of his books, but never actually got to face the tyrant down. What if he actually did, and no one knew about it?
1. Part I

Superman vs. Hitler

Part I

It was a cold day in April, 1945. The war in Europe was about to come to an end. Ace reporter Clark Kent pondered what to write back home and his fingers rested on the typewriter.

"Unconditional German Surrender Expected?" No. That would seem too pretentious. He knew one better. "America Presses toward Berlin." It was short, simple, and to the point. Of course, he was always careful in his wording. Suppose the Nazis had their own secret weapon, poised and ready to fire just as the Allies took the city? He couldn't make anything seem certain anymore, not after Roosevelt had died a week before. The man who had helped bring the allies so close to winning the war had dropped dead, and nobody had seen it coming, or at least if they had, hadn't leaked it out to the presses.

But he was the ultimate uncertainty. He could just as well fly into Berlin, march right up to Hitler and sock him in the jaw like all of the comic-book covers showed him doing, but somebody as ruthless and conniving as Adolf Hitler wouldn't let him. He would be just as likely to pull out a piece of Kryptonite and render to Allies' secret weapon useless. This war would have to be won the old-fashioned way, with guts and bullets.

He started typing, but only got a few sentences in when the ongoing drizzle outside became a downpour. He could hear every drop hit the ground, one after the other. Drip, drop, drip. It was a continuous buzzing he couldn't block out: his heightened senses drove him insane sometimes.

Just ignore it, he told himself. Things like this come with the territory. You've had worse happen to you. Ringing in your ears isn't that bothersome. But he was lying to himself. The endless pitter-patter of raindrops was one of his most hated things in this world, second only to Kryptonite and Chinese food. Ignore it, he told himself again.

"After crossing the Rhine in March, American forces continue to liberate large portions of Nazi territory—"

Should it be "Nazi territory" or "German territory?" Nazi sounded better. It had more emotional weight behind it. Keep that sentence.

"—while Soviet forces move westward in an assault against the Elbe—"

"An assault against the Elbe?" That didn't sound right. The two armies were supposed to meet up at the Elbe, not attack it. Scratch that phrase; replace it with "while Soviet forces continue to move toward the Elbe." A much better sentence.

"Soviet forces are currently engaged in a bitter battle against Germany's last stronghold in Berlin. It is likely that surrender is imminent—"

Did this put too much emphasis on the Soviets? After all this was an _American_ newspaper he was writing for. Not many readers of the _Daily Planet_ would likely care about what the Russkies were up to. Re-phrase. Replace with—

Suddenly, the tent flap flew open, and a wet, pruned face peered inside. "Colonel says we hafta move out this evenin'. Pack yer stuff. We gotta take the tent down."

Clark said nothing, but smiled politely. He made him lose his train of thought, but it was seemly to act polite, anyway. Clark packed away the typewriter and manuscript in his duffel bag and pulled out his poncho. He was going to get wet and have to put up with all the noise. It wasn't going to be a pleasant ride at all.


	2. Part II

Part II

Clark sat slouched in the back of the jeep as it traversed the winding, bumpy pathways through the German countryside. Pain surged through his head as the lightning cracked. He wasn't quite sure if his eardrums were invincible like the rest of him, but he hoped they were.

"Just a few hours to Berlin," said the soldier beside him, "I reckon we'll give the krauts one heckuva fight once we get there. Can't let the commies beat us to the punch, you know?"

Clark was silent still.

"Don't talk much, do ya? Never got your name back there," the soldier extended his hand. It was wrinkled and blackened with dirt, blood, and powder.

Clark gingerly wrapped his fingers around the man's hand, careful not to crush them as he so often did. He gently moved his arm up and down, careful not to rip the arm off. Super-strength had its drawbacks. He could be quite a danger to others when he didn't want to be. "Clark Kent," he coughed out.

'Pleasure's mine. Will Smithers, PFC. Where you from?"

"Kansas, well, originally from Kansas. I work in Metropolis now."

Smithers' craggy face grew into a smile. Something was familiar to him about Clark.

"Kansas, eh? I'm from Topeka."

"Smallville."

"Think I remember that town. Smack dab in the middle of nowhere, innit?"

"Yeah. Takes an extra week for mail to get there. We didn't get a phone until I was fifteen, and I just bought my Ma and Pa their first radio. But it only picks up stations from Kansas City, and even then they're pretty staticky. I wanted them to keep up with troop movements over here, as I was coming over to report back to the _Planet._"

"Hey, consider yourself lucky. Never could afford a radio for my folks. They only get the newspaper on Sundays, and my dad had to be practically thrown into his first car. He came into the twentieth century kicking and screaming."

The jeep hit a bump. Clark gripped the edge of his seat to make sure he stayed down. He couldn't be accidentally seen floating in midair. Ah, shucks. He had bent the metal of the bench. Never hang on too tight, Clark! Just keep your hands there and maybe he won't notice.

Smithers continued to talk, completely ignoring Clark's mishap. Things like this happened all of the time on backcountry roads.

It was soon night, though Clark could scarcely tell the difference between it and daylight. It had been storming all day, and was just beginning to let up. The men began to pitch their tents, and Clark dug into his duffel bag for the typewriter. It was drenched. These bags weren't water-proof in the slightest. He crumpled up the ruined manuscript and threw it over his shoulder. He then ducked inside a tent and pulled a somewhat usable piece of paper and inserted it into the typewriter. The rain had begun to let up, so he would at last have some quiet.

"America Presses toward Berlin…" Bombs exploded, shots rang out. They were near Berlin tonight, he could tell. But the sounds of war were at least preferable to the endless pitter-patter of the rain. He typed each word deliberately, taking care to phrase everything precisely as it should be phrased. He left no sentence unpunctuated, no T uncrossed, no I un-dotted.

And then he heard sounds of a different sort. Voices. He had to concentrate on them for a moment. They weren't in English, but in German. Was the enemy in the camp? No. The voices were coming from underground.

He concentrated harder on them. It sounded like a radio speech being recorded. "And you, the boys of the Hitler Youth, have waged a tireless battle to defend this fatherland and the purity of the Aryan race. Have faith, then! Do not falter in the face of communistic oppressors who want only to destroy your families and burn your houses!"

There was no mistaking that voice. It was the voice of the Führer himself! Adolf Hitler was somewhere nearby, just below his feet.


	3. Part III

Part III

The sound cut in and out. Of course, the radio message that he was broadcasting would do that. It was fainter now, as if Hitler wasn't just below him, but a few yards away, then miles away. He couldn't rely on his hearing to find this one, he thought as he removed his glasses and peered deep within the earth.

Luckily, Hitler hadn't thought to line his bunker with lead. Clark's vision cut through the cement walls to find corridors rife with armed Nazis, and bolted doors which he presumed guarded the Führer's office. He strained himself trying to see through them, but it was no use. These doors must have been lead-lined. No matter. He could punch through them as easily as he could punch through a brick wall or snap a chain. This was a job for Superman!

Clark threw off his hat and jacket, and quickly unbuttoned his shirt and pants to reveal the garb of the Man of Steel himself, red and blue and gold, the colors of Krypton and of mankind's greatest hero.

Superman curled his right hand into a fist and struck the earth, then again, and again. His punches proceeded at super-speed, until he was tunneling through the dirt and into the cement walls of Hitler's bunker. His last punch hit the cement wall like a bomb, shattering it into huge chunks that sent the guards into a frenzy.

Dust and debris flowed out of the ceiling, setting out the power and darkening the hallway. Superman heard indistinct screaming, followed by the cracks of gunshots. At first, they fired anywhere, as if they couldn't see him, then they focused their fire on the bright red and yellow S shield covering his chest. They haven't heard of me, he thought.

Superman stepped forward, undeterred by their bullets, until he could feel the muzzles of their rifles. He gripped them with his hands and bent them upward. It took no effort on his part, but sent the soldiers screaming and scampering down the darkened corridors. No, they definitely hadn't heard of him.

It wouldn't be worth it to chase them down. That should have just been a lesson to them. Never shoot Superman with bullets; e_specially _not at his giant shield.

Superman focused his telescopic vision down the hallway until he could make out the shape of those bolted doors that had stymied his x-ray vision before. They were just down the hallway. He dashed there and kicked the doors inward, filling the air with a loud snap as the hinges broke loose from the concrete. He stopped, and looked ahead of himself. There, behind a modest writing desk, sat a middle-aged man slumped over a microphone. His hair was meticulously combed, his moustache trimmed neatly. He wore a brown uniform of the Third Reich and a red swastika armband. He glared at Superman intensely, as if he too had heat vision, and was imagining Superman being burned alive by it. This was Adolf Hitler.

"So the Allies have sent me their greatest secret weapon," he said. His voice wasn't at all like it sounded in the newsreels. It wasn't bombastic or grandiose, only subtle and plain. It was a bit of a shock to hear him speak like a normal person would talk, and not shout and wave his hands around.

Superman stood with his legs apart, and hands on his hips, and did his best to sound heroic, "I am Superman, the Man of Steel; Defender of Truth, Justice, and the American Way! I am a soldier like any one of my American compatriots, and you are the enemy of all that is good and right. I have come to apprehend you, evildoer, and bring you to justice!"

Hitler smirked and surreptitiously opened one of the drawers in his desk. "Don't think I haven't heard about you, Superman. You come from a lost race, far superior to our own. Why is it that you waste your talents protecting the small and weak?"

"It is not right for those with great power to abuse those without power. This was part of my American upbringing. Come quietly now. Now weapon you are keeping in your desk could possible harm me!"

"Of course not, Superman. Bullets and bombs cannot harm you, but _something else_ can, can't it?"

No, that couldn't be. Hitler hadn't stashed away a piece of Kryptonite in his desk, had he? He hadn't told anyone about his weakness, least of all Hitler! He concentrated his x-ray vision on the desk, and saw nothing but papers, pens, paperweights. It looked as if Hitler was bluffing after all. His hand was resting inside the drawer, holding nothing.

"You cannot harm me, evildoer! I can clearly see that you are bluffing! I have caught you unawares!"

"No, my dear Superman, I have surprised you!" Hitler pulled from the drawer a shimmering spear and aimed it towards Superman, "Not even the Man of Steel can contend with the power of the Spear of Destiny!"

Great Scott! He hadn't counted on the dictator getting his hands on a _magical_ weapon! None of his powers would work against the Spear of Destiny. But still, he couldn't let his guard down. This was Superman's fight, not Clark Kent's. He was the Man of Steel, and no magical artifact could change that.

"You and I, Superman, we are the same. We both belong to a master race. My Aryan Empire will conquer the entire world. It shall be like a second Krypton! Would it not be wonderful to lead a new race of supermen to glory? Would it?"

Superman noticed that Hitler was apparently trying to force a kind of mystical hypnosis upon him, but it didn't seem to be working. He was still himself, and Hitler only looked like a fool rambling on while holding the spear. This couldn't be the famed Spear of Destiny!

Superman reached forward and snatched the spear out of Hitler's hands and examined it. Just as he thought, lead-based gold paint. No wonder he didn't see it in the desk. This was a fake!

"I cannot join the cause of someone who did not even bother to authenticate his artifacts," Superman laughed as he grabbed the dictator by the throat, "and I could never join a cause as foolish as yours. I have heard the screams of those you have tortured in your death camps, seen the slaughter you have wreaked across Europe. My people perished in a holocaust, but it was a terrible natural disaster. Your holocausts are man-made. You are not a superman. You are a cowardly maggot, hiding behind the glamour and glory of your Third Reich. You give a mighty fancy speech, Herr Hitler, but you couldn't win a war!"

He flung the astounded Hitler against the concrete wall and turned his back to him. "I will not take you in. You deserve to be found here, wallowing in your misery like the worm you are!"

And with that, Superman darted out of the compound, through the gap he had created in the wall, and into the air. He gazed over the war-torn landscape, and heard the sounds of bombs exploding over Berlin. It would soon be over, and the men would win it themselves. Superman could not win the war, there was too much mercy in him.


End file.
